


Deity

by yeaka



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 07:06:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29870970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hank’s left in Detroit’s ruins for the inorganic gods.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36
Collections: Done Reading(the Good Stuff)





	Deity

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Detroit: Become Human or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For all the years he’s been in law enforcement, Hank’s never actually learned how to get himself out of someone else’s handcuffs. It’ll go down in history as his biggest failure. If he did know, he could wriggle himself out of this mess, tear himself away from the road-sign he’s currently chained to, and then he could run like hell for the city limits or at least find his dog while he’s here.

His chest clenches. He tries to remember if it was as dark out the night that Sumo wandered in around the rubble and got lost amidst the ruins of the once-great Detroit. There used to be so many lights from street lamps and skyscrapers and passing traffic that the inhabitants couldn’t even see the stars. At least, that’s what all the old articles say. It was long before Hank’s time. He considers himself _old_ —too old for this nonsense—but even he was born after the collapse of human society. Maybe as an infant he knew a town even a quarter as big as Detroit, but he can’t remember anymore. Now it’s just little villages surviving in battered hovels, trying to get by with so little electricity that Hank can’t even find a working fan in the summer. There are no more complex electronics. Androids are _not_ an option. Computers are threats that could evolve into nightmares, though Hank’s heard how useful they used to be. But people even older than Hank tell all kinds of lies.

They say the androids came and crushed everything in their path, hungry for blood from their first activation, and that they want more humans now to run their sick experiments. One or two elders will even admit that once, it was the other way around—humans toyed with android minds and bodies. So this is only karma, penance. It sounds like a lot of superstitious bullshit to Hank.

Maybe that rebellious attitude is what got him tossed out of a clunky pickup truck and tied to a sign in the middle of the night, offered up as this decade’s human sacrifice. Hank always thought sacrifices were supposed to be beautiful young women, virgins or some other stupid stipulation, not fat old man who can’t even take care of their own dogs. 

Seeing the dark pit Detroit’s become, Hank feels even worse for letting Sumo run off. It’s what he gets for drinking on their walks. He should’ve held the leash tighter. Maybe this really is karma. Maybe he does deserve to get slaughtered in some sick ancient-modern ritual.

Then he remembers he’s dealing with _machines_ , and machines aren’t gods, and even gods don’t deserve unwilling sacrifices. He starts struggling again, grunting and wincing as he twists his shoulders at odd angles and tries to maneuver his thick fists through the handcuffs. It doesn’t seem like there’s any chance of making it, but it’s better than dying lying down. 

And at least it warms him up. It’s too cold on the edge of the abandoned highway, the dirt almost frozen under him and the wind crawling under his coat. He puffs out breath he can see and grits his teeth, arching back to paw at the earth—maybe he can dig the pole right out of the ground. 

Probably not. It’d help if he could at least fix his position, so his arms weren’t drawn behind his back. But he can’t think of any way to do that. 

Then he catches the faint trot of footsteps in the distance, and his efforts still entirely. His head snaps towards the sound. The starlight’s just enough to make out the silhouette of a single man. And it’s not coming from the direction of the humans.

Hank swallows and prepares himself. He’s seen pictures in old magazines—tablets with broken screens frozen on single images. They had pure white skin, not really _skin_ at all, but hybrid silicone plating with metal joins and circuits and blue rings around their eyes. They were horrifying creatures when raw: big, living dolls that could change their colouring on a whim, could grow hair or heal wounds, even had angry yellow-red circles around their temples. Sometimes parents still show their children pictures to scare them away from the android-zones—like the old metropolis of Detroit, right on Hank’s doorstep.

He heard all the frightening tales when he was little. Then he grew up and shrugged them off, because he never had much interest in machines anyway—was too busy hunting down bad humans to give a damn about bad robots. 

Then the figure gets close enough for Hank to realize that this one isn’t snow-white but Caucasian pink, with dark hair and grey clothes—a suit, with a white shirt underneath, light blue highlights, even a black tie. Every step he takes brings more detail. His cheeks are high and sculpted, not flushed despite the cold, and his lips are supple but set in a neutral frown, and it’s difficult to tell the colour of his eyes in the poor light, but they’re a natural colour—not neon yellow or red. His hair is brushed back, but a few stray strands are curled against his forehead, and his skin’s dotted here and there with the occasional mole: a small, unique detail that looks all too _human._

And he’s _gorgeous_ —a young man of twenty or thirty, well-built but not all that large, maybe Hank’s height but trimmer. He has a sort of softness to him, an allure that Hank might’ve once been drawn to. Hank’s too old for men like this anymore. He’s a wreck himself, with a scruffy beard he doesn’t take care of and salt-and-pepper hair that Jeffrey always says to dye. Jeffrey also tells him he’s an alcoholic with a bad attitude, and that’s why he’s not getting laid. Hank hasn’t even cared about that since Sumo left—life’s too depressing to bother chasing small niceties. He figured age and alcohol beat the libido out of him anyway. But it revs up over this android, which is a confusing, nauseating feeling.

The android stops right in front of Hank, and Hank gives up struggling. He hopes the android just slits his throat quickly and gets it over with. The last thing he wants is the shame of lusting after a bucket of bolts for his last thought. 

Then again, the man doesn’t look anything like a tin can. When it just stares blankly down at Hank, probably analyzing every little thing about him, Hank grunts, “You’re an android?”

The man nods curtly. “Yes. My name is Connor—I’m an android sent by the Jericho council. It’s nice to meet you, Lieutenant.”

Hank startles, then growls, “How the _hell_ do you know my rank?”

The android—Connor—nods towards the wallet overturned an arm’s length away, his badge showing and his credit cards slipping out of their fold. The idiots who brought him didn’t even try to steal it when it fell out of his pocket. They were probably too afraid to linger, too busy trying to get away again. _Hank_ was too afraid to remember it. Connor tilts his pretty head and asks, “Would you prefer ‘Hank?’”

Hank’s nose wrinkles. He doesn’t know which is creepier. For a second, he thought the android had scanned his face and somehow gotten his name, like they used to be able to do when humans were all connected, but digital records aren’t kept anymore for just that reason. It doesn’t make him feel better that Connor’s simply scanned his ID. 

Deciding to change the subject, Hank asks, “Why’re you so goofy-looking?” And by goofy he means _not terrifying_ and maybe even _cute_. But he’s not about to complement a machine that’s going to murder him. Connor doesn’t seem to take any offense.

“I’m emulating a human to make you more comfortable.”

“Well, you fucked up. I’m damn uncomfortable.”

Connor’s frown twitches. It’s a small but strangely natural reaction. He actually looks _sorry_ , as though Hank’s comfort was a real goal. He says, “I apologize for your discomfort. I am willing to free you, but only if you’ll agree to not attack any androids.”

Hank’s brows reach his hairline. “You want _me_ not to attack _you?_ ” Maybe once upon a time, Hank would’ve been a threat—he used to be able to chase suspects for miles. Not anymore. And he’s pretty sure he was never a match for someone made of metal. 

“The humans left within city limits have proven quite troublesome in the past. When we explain that we don’t require their presence, they inevitably become agitated, despite our peaceful efforts. Seven androids were harmed before the last one was neutralized.”

“Neutralized,” Hank numbly repeats, pretty sure what that means.

Connor returns with surprisingly colloquial language, “To use a human adage, if you don’t hurt us, we won’t hurt you. But we _will_ defend ourselves.”

Sounds fair. And they probably don’t know their own strength. Not compared to weak mortals, anyway. Hank’s not feeling a whole lot better, even if he wouldn’t particularly mind this one android hunting him down and punishing him. 

What a fucked up thought. Jeffrey’s right—it has been way too long since he got laid. It’s doing things to his brain. Or maybe that’s just the cold. Or the hour. Or the fact that Connor’s the cutest guy to talk to him in years. Hank swallows that down and mutters, “I’m not dumb enough to fight a machine.” He kind of wishes he had his gun anyway. Even though he never liked using it.

Connor tilts his head, eyes skimming Hank’s face, and Hank’s pretty sure Connor’s become a humanoid lie-detector. Fortunately, Hank’s not lying. Connor seems to come to that realization, and then he slowly kneels down, moving gracefully as though afraid to startle a wild animal. When he leans forward, he comes dangerously close—close enough that Hank could bite right into his nose. If Connor breathed, Hank would feel it, but he realizes with a start that Connor’s deathly still. His arms move around Hank’s back, and as soft hands brace around his wrists, Connor murmurs, “Please be still, Lieutenant. I don’t wish to hurt you.”

Hank numbly nods. He’s not a trusting person, but he’s too busy registering the deep chocolate brown of Connor’s eyes to be suspicious. Connor even smells faintly of cologne—probably another touch solely for Hank’s benefit. It smells _good_.

Connor looks better. Hank bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything about it. If anything, it just makes his situation even worse. So embarrassing. Connor ignores the light scowl and takes hold of either wrist, fingers spread to capture both Hank’s body and the metal. He asks, “Ready?”

“Sure.”

Connor pulls, and it stings, snapping his wrists against the hard hoops, but he can hear the chain between shattering to bits and feels a few shreds bounce off his skin. His eyes go wide, dumfounded as Connor carefully draws Hank’s arms back around. He does it one at a time, guiding them by the elbow and shoulder, even rubbing lightly as though to ease the aching muscles underneath. When that’s done, Connor grabs hold of each loop left and tugs those open too. He’s every bit as strong as the humans feared. 

But it’s hard to be scared of him when he takes such good care of Hank—he even runs his blunt fingertips underneath Hank’s sleeves and rubs soothing circles around Hank’s wrists, massaging out the angry red rings. While he’s doing that, Hank finds himself searching for something, anything to keep his mind busy and off how horribly enchanting Connor is. 

He tries, “I thought the android leader had different coloured eyes.”

“Markus,” Connor agrees, his own matching eyes fixed on Hank’s wrinkled hands. “But he isn’t a dictator as your kind seems to think. He has a council, and they’re working on organizing their own society. They made and programmed me to enforce the rules they devise, and to deal with any threats.” He pauses to glance up, piercing right into Hank. “I could deal with you easily, but I hope you won’t make me.” When Hank nods, he adds, “But you understand. You’re the same as me. It’s... interesting... to meet a human counterpart.”

They’re _nothing_ alike. Maybe if Connor had said that _before_ kneeling so close to him and tenderly massaging him, he’d be more cantankerous. But he’s begrudgingly melting so lets it slide, instead cutting to, “So what’re you going to do with me? Lock me up? Try me for humanity’s crimes?”

“Have you, personally, committed any?”

The smart thing to do would be insist _no_ , but Hank’s not particularly bright. “I stepped foot in Detroit before, if that counts. But if you’ve got all the fancy cameras running everybody says you do, I guess you’ll already have that evidence. I stuck around for a few days until the lights started coming on where I was. But I wasn’t coming to vandalize or whatever—my dog ran off here, which, frankly, is your guys’ damn fault for locking down a whole city and not even putting gates up.” Again, he probably shouldn’t get accusatory, but that’s been bothering him.

Connor doesn’t look the least bit bothered and instead asks with wide eyes, “A dog? From this direction, recently?”

“Six months ago,” Hank provides, curious why that even matters—maybe the androids have some weirdly short statute of limitations on trespassing.

“Was it a Saint Bernard?”

Hank abruptly yanks his hands out of Connor’s, moving before he can think to stop himself, but Connor lets Hank clasp his shoulders and even give him a firm shake. “Sumo? You found him? Is he okay?”

“Of course,” Connor reports, and for the first time, his lips twitch up at the corners. He dons a small, subtle smile, and quietly tells Hank, “I like dogs. I was quite happy to find him.”

So an android stole his dog. That’s why Sumo didn’t come home. Hank’s too relieved to even be mad. But— “Wait... what do you mean ‘you like dogs’? How can you like anything?”

Connor’s expression softens. Instead of answering, he murmurs, “The dog... Sumo... has been rather lethargic, although I’ve been sure to take good care of him. I was worried he missed his master. It’ll be good for him to see you again.”

Hank wants to see him again. “Then... you’ll give him back? Just like that?” Not that Hank wouldn’t fight for his dog, but this is all just so _easy_.

“If you promise to take good care of him too. And I’d like you to come with me to get him. My sensors tell me you’re far below the ideal temperature, but I’ve set up a house for Sumo that should meet your needs. Maybe on the way, you can tell me about him.”

Hank’s shocked. “About my dog.”

“Yes. And other dogs. And about what it’s like to be a lieutenant on your side of the border. Maybe we can learn from each other... and maybe even work together.”

Hank’s not sure he’d go that far. But Connor’s looking at Hank like he wants nothing more—like he sees as much beauty in Hank as Hank sees in him. Which is impossible. Hank traitorously wonders just how much Connor can really imitate humans, and if he wants to learn. 

Either way, Hank’s got to get his dog back. So he nods, and when Connor stands up, Hank does too. His legs are stiff and loudly crack from being bent so long in the cold, but it’s not like he hasn’t dealt with aches and pains before. Maybe Connor’s even got some beer in this supposedly warm house that Hank could use to soothe his nerves.

Connor even bends to fetch Hank’s wallet, giving Hank a fleeting but amazing view of his round backside. Whether or not the androids kill him, Hank’s definitely going to hell. 

A few nights with Connor might be worth dying for. So when Connor leads the way, Hank begrudgingly follows—the last human sacrificed to androids.


End file.
